Chasing Charity (5 page)

Charity swept through the kitchen door to find her mama in front of Mother Dane’s cast-iron stove. At the dawn of a new day, Cleopatra had traded her couch for an apron and skillet. Dwarfed by the huge black contraption, she looked even smaller than usual, reminding Charity of a little girl playing house.

Barefoot as usual, Mama stood like a crane, one foot propped against the opposite knee. She gazed out the window, a shaft of light bathing the side of her face, and her eyes squinted against the rising sun. Without looking, she took an egg from a basket on the sideboard and cracked it into a big yellow bowl. Lifting the bottle of milk, she poured a dollop over the eggs, never spilling a drop.

Anyone else might think the view past the checkered curtains held her fancy. By the dazed look in her eyes, Charity knew the confines of the carnation-weave wallpaper held her body, but her mind and spirit soared somewhere in the distance. Drifting off that way, among Mama’s many other odd habits, had led the townsfolk to think her peculiar at best. Some even called her insane.

Charity took a deep breath and gathered her courage. “I’m leaving, Mama. I will not stay in this house another minute.”

Mama glanced over her shoulder. “You hush now. And close that door. They’ll hear you.”

“There’s no one awake to hear. Besides, I don’t care.” Charity swept past the threshold and did as she was told. The careful way she eased the door shut contradicted her bold statement.

The frustrating little woman chuckled and went back to her task. “There’s no one awake because they were up half the night. Made quite a ruckus, they did, pounding on doors and spitting like cats.”

Charity squirmed. “They weren’t the only ones up all night.”

Mama kept a stiff back to her, but the motion of beating the eggs set her thin frame to dancing. “Couldn’t sleep, huh? Is your conscience sore, daughter? The Good Book says, ‘The wicked are like the troubled sea when it cannot rest, whose waters cast up mire and dirt.’” She chuckled. “Sounds like our bog, don’t it?”

Charity banged her fist on the table. “No, it doesn’t. It’s nothing like our bog. Mercy! You sorely vex me sometimes. When you talk like that, I go to thinking—”

Mama turned, her movements slow and deliberate. “Go on and say it.”

Charity felt her stomach fill with mush. She couldn’t meet those burning eyes.

“What’s the matter? Lost your nerve?” Mama’s work-worn fingers had gone white around the spatula. “Let me finish for you, then. You go to thinking I’m loony like this town has me pegged. Now ain’t that so?”

Charity fixed her eyes on a crack in the floor. “I’m sorry, Mama. I know you’re not loony. Only sometimes you act so strange.”

Her long silence made Charity nervous, but Charity knew enough to stay still and wait.

“Come over here, daughter.”

She dared a quick glance at Mama’s face. “Ma’am?”

“Do as I say.”

Eyes still downcast, Charity crossed the room. Her mama laid down the spatula and faced her. “Now then, you look me square in the eye.”

Charity’s head hung lower.

Mama hooked an index finger around her chin and raised her red-hot face. “Go on, take a look. Look deep in my eyes, clear past the faded skin and wrinkles. That’s it. All right, tell me what you see.”

She searched the soft green eyes. “What do you mean? I don’t see anything.”

Mama released her chin. “And there’s your problem.” With that she picked up her utensil and returned to the eggs.

Frustration crowded Charity’s throat, making her voice come out shrill. “You’re not making any sense.”

The spatula went down again, and Mama wiped her hands on her apron. “Let me tell you what you missed.” She raised a finger and thumped herself hard on the chest. It rang hollow in Charity’s ears like the sound of a ripe melon. “Underneath this pruned-up skin, back behind these tired old eyes, I’m still just a girl. No different from you, except on the outside.”

Charity shook her head. “Don’t be silly. You don’t have pruned-up skin or tired eyes. You’re not yet fifty.”

Mama placed both hands on Charity’s shoulders. “It’s the road I’m walking, but it don’t matter none to me. Just because I’ve got a few years under my belt, folks expect me to act like I swallowed a bucket of starch. Well, I won’t. That ain’t me.”

Charity knew Mama wanted some sign that she understood, but she could only stare back and nod.

“Baby, these bodies age, and there’s nothing to be done about it. If we’re lucky, if we don’t fight it, our souls stay young forever. I won’t put no face on for the world. I tried for your sake, but I cain’t do it no more. It plain stifles me.”

She reached around to set the skillet off the fire. “I’ll tell you something else. Your papa never tried to change me. Never once made me feel crazy. But then, I reckon he was the last soul on earth willing to accept me just how I am.” Her gaze jumped back to the checkered curtains, and Charity’s heart pitched and dove for her feet. She suddenly knew exactly where her mama’s thoughts had been when she entered the room.

She held out her hand. “That’s not true. I—”

“Bertha Maye!”

Mother Dane’s strident voice struck panic in Charity’s heart. She spun toward the kitchen door. “I have to go, Mama. I have to leave right this minute.”

“Just where do you think to go?”

“I pondered that all night. First, I’ll check the hotel. If they don’t have a room for us yet, I can put our names on the list.”

“And then?”

“Home. I want to go back home. At least for now.”

Mama put a hand on her hip and turned back to the scorched-smelling eggs. “I sure thought a daughter of mine could stand up to trouble better than this, but you go on. I won’t stop you.”

Mother Dane trudged into the kitchen, still wrapped in her dressing gown. “Here you two are,” she announced, swiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “It’s a blessing for Emmy her daddy’s out of town; else we’d be planning a wake this morning.” She glanced toward the skillet, sniffing the air. “You burning those eggs, Bert?”

Mama faced her. “Magda, can Nash fetch Charity into town this morning?”

“Sure thing, honey. I ain’t going nowhere.” Mother Dane ambled to the counter, her attention on the platter of crispy bacon. “Where’s she running off to this early?”

“On a fool’s errand.”

Perhaps weary from her own nocturnal battle, Mother Dane didn’t press. “Let me go dress and tell Nash to square the rig. That is, if I can find him. How something as bodacious big as that man disappears with such dependable regularity beats all I ever saw.”

Charity eased toward the exit. “Don’t trouble yourself, Mother Dane. I’m already dressed. I’ll go tell him myself.”

The kitchen door closed behind her, and Charity ran for the foyer, careful not to look toward the stairs. On the way, she hoisted her bag from behind the chair where she’d left it and burst onto the wide porch—straight into the arms of Buddy Pierce. They collided, and her bag jerked loose from her hands and skittered across the porch.

“Whoa, there!” he cried, pressing her against him to keep her upright. At such close proximity, his voice sounded deeper than usual and seemed to rumble from his broad chest.

“Morning, Miss Bloom. So we meet again.” He squinted when he smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Not that I don’t enjoy these encounters, but a simple hello would do. Unless you need a good fright to start your heart in the mornings. Have you tried coffee?”

She pulled free and peered up, raising the brim of her bonnet so she could see. “Mr. Pierce, where on earth did you come from? You simply must stop creeping up on me.”

He had the starch to grin. “My sincere apologies, ma’am. I’m getting right good at it though.”

She brushed at her dress and tightened the ribbon holding her hat while she fought to regain some dignity. “If you’re truly sorry, you can rescue my bag from that hedge.”

Buddy glanced behind him then walked to the edge of the porch and bent down. She watched him hesitate before poking in a lacy bit of cloth and closing the latch. She bit back a smile when he returned red-faced.

He held up her satchel and studied it. “Didn’t I tote this inside just last night?”

“You did.”

“And now you’re bringing it out again?”

“Give it to me, please.”

“You seem in an awful big hurry to get somewhere.”

“That’s because I am.” She snatched the upraised bag from his hand. “In fact, I’m about to give you an opportunity to repay me for ambushing me at every turn. You may give me a ride into town.”

Buddy looked at the door. “I’d be happy to, but...”

Charity followed his gaze. “I see. You have business inside. Very well, I’ll wait for Nash.” She started for the steps, but he grabbed her sleeve and hauled her around.

“Not so fast. My only business is to see that you and your mama are settled and to offer my help with moving the rest of your things.”

“Is that all? In that case, you needn’t worry. We’re just fine.”

He cast another doubtful peek at the house. “Well, if you say so...”

“I do.” She took his arm and urged him toward the steps. “Shall we go?”

He settled his hat lower, studying her from under the brim. “Well, yes, ma’am,” he said, allowing her to lead him from the porch. “I guess so.”

In the distance, a high bank of black clouds closed on the horizon, a dark swirling wall with a fluffy white top. It snuffed out the light as it inched forward, pulling a curtain over the bright, sunlit morning. Buddy wondered what more rain might do to the rutted streets of Humble. The lowland area of Southeast Texas suffered frequent flooding, but he’d heard more thunderstorms than usual had rumbled through the small town in recent weeks.

He glanced at Miss Bloom, who had remained silent for most of the ride. Quite out of character for the spirited young thing he’d first met in the hotel. He found it odd he hadn’t seen that woman since, except for a glimpse on Mrs. Dane’s porch.

Buddy pulled up to the crowded boardwalk in front of the Lone Star Hotel and set the brake. Hopping down, he made his way around the wagon with the mire sucking audibly at his boots. Necks craned as he helped Miss Bloom down, careful to keep her dress out of the mud. When he offered his arm, she took it, and he led her through the mob to the door of the hotel.

Inside, he intended to hang back a respectable distance to allow her to conduct business in private, but she clung to his arm and steered him straight to the counter.

“Morning, Sam.” She beamed at the clerk. “I’m going to need a room for a few weeks for Mama and me.”

Sam frowned. He seemed loath to be the bearer of bad news, especially to her. “I’m dreadful sorry, child. There are none to be had.”

She bit her bottom lip. “Hmm, I expected as much. When do you suppose that will change?”

The little man shook his head. “Not in the foreseeable future.”

“I see.” Her slender fingers drumming a rhythm on the countertop, she stared at a large portrait dominating the far wall as if the mustachioed man in the frame might lend her wisdom.

The aging clerk pushed his wire-rimmed glasses higher with a palsied hand. “If you don’t mind my asking, has something happened out at your place?” His anxious expression and the way he hovered near Charity reminded Buddy of a brood hen and her chick.

The pretty hatchling smoothed her fluff and released a weary-sounding breath. “It’s quite complicated, really. You see, Mr. Pierce here saw black stuff on Mama’s chicken and—”

Buddy took hold of her shoulders and pulled her back, upsetting her balance as well as the angle of the blue feather protruding from her straw hat. “What the lady’s trying to say is”—he stared into her startled eyes, using his to flash a warning—“there are much-needed improvements going on at their house. It’s not the safest place for them just now.”

Sam eyed Buddy, his frown deepening. “As I recall, you’re not a registered guest of the hotel, so why do I see your face in my lobby most every day of late?”

Buddy nodded. “Nothing gets past you, does it? You’re right, of course. I’m not official.” He grinned and held out his hand. “Name’s Buddy Pierce. I guess you might say I’m a guest of a guest.”

Ignoring Buddy’s hand and his explanation, the man turned back to Charity. “Is there something else I can do for you, my dear?”

She stepped to the counter again, adjusting her hat and frowning at Buddy before she answered. “I understand there’s a waiting list.”

“Why, yes, there is.”

“Can you put us on it?”

“I can, but I warn you, it’s long.” He pulled a ledger from under the counter and slid it toward Charity. Names filled the page from top to bottom on several sheets. “Might be weeks before we can get to you.” He tilted his head toward the window. “The boom, you know.”

Buddy watched Charity, waiting for her reaction. The news was sure to upset her.

“Very well.” She took the pen in her gloved hand and scratched her mama’s name on the last line. Following suit with the others, she added the number two and circled it then pushed the book back to the clerk and nodded. “Thank you, Sam.”

The old man’s gaze swept Buddy. His Adam’s apple bobbed several times before he finally squeezed a question past his throat. “I don’t mean to pry, little miss, but have you found adequate shelter for you and your mama until we’re able to accommodate you?”

“As a matter of fact, we have. Mama will be staying at Magdalena Dane’s house. I’ve decided on a more sensible arrangement for myself.” She fixed Buddy with a determined glare. “You heard right, Mr. Pierce. I won’t be going back to Mother Dane’s.”

Before Buddy could react, she walked away. He caught up to her near the door and offered his arm again. She took it, and he swept her through the crowd outside. At the wagon, he helped her swing up onto the seat then watched her until she began to squirm.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked, looking down at him from the rig. “Let’s go.”

Buddy blinked. “Fine. Where to?”

“Home.” She dared him with her eyes and sat up straighter, plucking at the folds of her dress. “I’m going home, and there’s nothing more to be said about it.”